The Meeting
by InsanityDeductions221B
Summary: Hello everybody! This is just a little fic I wrote when I was bored not too long ago, and I decided to upload it so people could read it! This is one of the ways I was thinking of introducing my Sherlock OC in my fanfic, but then I decided against it. I changed how my OC looks except for her hair and name so that I won't be giving anything away. This contains no pairings! Enjoy!


**Greetings readers! This is the first thing I'm publishing here on , so I hope you like it. This is just one of the many ways that I first thought of introducing my Sherlock OC in my fanfic (which I'm currently writing, you'll probably see it up sometime during this summer). Now however, I've decided to introduce her a different way, but I thought I'd post this anyway so you could read it.**

**XD I love writing Sherlock stuff, he's so funny! ("So we go around the sun! If we went 'round the moon, or _'round and 'round the garden like a teddy bear_, it wouldn't make any difference!") *laughs* Great, now I want to watch The Great Game again…**

**This story contains an OC, so if you don't care for that sort of thing, then don't read this! There aren't any pairings in this! Rated T because I'm paranoid.**

**Enjoy!**

**~EJ**

**The Meeting Ver. 1: Of Boredom**

It was a dark day today, and as ever, Sherlock Holmes was bored. Deathly, out of his mind bored. And he was furious that no killers had murdered someone. It was infuriating! He thought as he paced back and fourth in front of the window, violin in hand. (John had gone out to get groceries and had yet to return.) Were murderers, especially serial killers, entitled to a break on weekends? No! It was ridiculous, it was infuriating, it was-

He froze. Movement outside the window had caught his eye. Of course, as soon as he had stopped to observe/deduct/investigate it, the motion had stopped and/or disappeared. Ever so silently, he set the instrument he was holding down and looked through the space where the curtains parted ever so slightly.

There! What had caught his eye were several teenage boys dressed in dark clothing. That, however, wasn't what had caught his attention. The young males were moving about, and judging by their movements, he could easily deduce that they were looking for something.

It appeared that one had found whatever it was, and the others began to group around… the consulting detective growled in frustration. The dumb brats were blocking his sight!

"Well, if you want to be like that, you insufferable, _boring_ idiots, then _fine_!" he snarled rather childishly, and quickly disguised himself as he saw fit. In this case, a young man who would appear to be hurrying home from visiting someone, and would just happen to notice the commotion and investigate.

His choice of clothing was simple. But, he mused to himself, the people who wore them were simple. And boring. It consisted of a simple black jacket over a white shirt and black pants, as well as his shoes, which were, of course, black.

Satisfied that he looked ordinary enough (in his mind 'drop-dead-bored'); he grabbed his coat and scarf, exiting the flat and jumping down the stairs three at a time as he descended.

"Where are you off to in this weather Sherlock?" he heard Mrs. Hudson call.

"Investigating a matter that is of interest to me," was the only answer he gave, before going out, the door shutting behind him.

As Sherlock moved closer to the boys, he could hear raised voices.

"Come on, just hand over the money and we'll let you go," one said. The answering voice was soft, and the gender of the speaker was still undecided, although the detective believed that it must be a younger boy who had been cornered by this gang, and they were now bullying him.

"You know, I find it hilarious that you pathetic weaklings can actually survive from day to day. Really, it astounds me."

This person must be very brave, Sherlock noted. That, or very stupid.

"If you're lucky, you'll live to regret saying that!"

"Oh, I think I will."

"How do you figure?"

"The same way I know that you're about to be ambushed."

The gang looked behind them, which turned out to be their big mistake. An elbow crashed into the stomach of the nearest boy and he doubled over coughing. Then another fell to the ground, having just been kicked 'where it counts'. There were now five thugs remaining.

Now Sherlock could see a slim (mostly), rather tall figure dressed in dark clothing with their hood pulled up over their face. However, judging by their body language, the person wasn't uncomfortable or on-edge in the slightest at all, even in this rather violent situation.

The figure and the five thugs stood looking at their opponent for a moment before the boys turned and ran down the street, back the way they had come. Once they had gone, Sherlock decided to question the figure so that he could return to the flat. Hopefully John would be back by then, and he could entertain himself while waiting for a murder by driving his flatmate up the walls.

He was right behind the figure, which was most likely watching, just in case the gang came back. At the precise moment he stopped, the figure pulled out a knife and whirled to point it directly at his face.

"Nice reflexes, but you came up a bit short."

The person studied him for a moment, before lowering the knife.

"But then of course, you weren't aiming to actually hit me, were you?"

The figure looked at him again, and then lowered their hood. If Sherlock had been in a bad mood before, it wasn't anything compared to now, because he had gotten something wrong. The person wasn't a boy at all, but a young woman. Quickly taking in her features; long, straight, hair, very dark nearly-black brown in color, eyes that were a mix of light hazel and blue, with a sprinkle of gold around the irises, appears to look weak, pale-skinned,…

Her eyes studied him all the while, and when he had finished, she spoke. It was no longer the soft voice she'd used when surrounded by the gang members, now it was strong and emotionless.

"Thank you."

"What for?" he asked, slightly puzzled, but of course not showing it.

"For not interrupting me. I prefer to take care of myself."

"I know."

"I know."

…"What?"

"I said, I know. That you know, I mean."

"Oh?" he asked, not believing a word she said "And how did you figure that out?"

"When you saw my face, you immediately began to gather as much information from my appearance and body language as you could." She smiled a smile that didn't reach her eyes, which retained all the emotion of ice, before putting her knife away. "Well, go ahead. I'm ready for your conclusions."

Immediately, Sherlock was off.

"You have excellent reflexes, suggesting some sort of combat experience and/or training, also supported by the fact that you were perfectly calm in a stressful situation, and by the fact that you dispatched those two thugs without breaking a sweat. Your eyes are a combination of colors, suggesting that you had them dyed or something of the like, which suggests rebellion against your parents, and that you are out alone. Despite all that, you're not as strong as you would have people believe, and prefer bad weather, judging by your pale skin. You're probably 18, or possibly 17. Am I wrong?"

There was a silence as she studied him. Then, stretching, she smirked slightly.

"Not bad for a first try."

"What did I get wrong?" he asked, slightly insulted.

"I do have excellent reflexes, thank you for the compliment. I actually have no combat training; all of that stuff just comes naturally. I was calm because I saw no reason to not be. My eyes are actually their original color, I wouldn't dream of rebelling against my parents. And another thing, I'm an orphan. I never knew my parents, or if I did, I cannot recall them. You're right, I am all alone, and I prefer it that way. I'm not sure how strong I am, but I know perfectly well that I could easily pick you up and throw you across the street if I was angry enough, and I wanted to. I don't care about the weather, and my skin is just naturally pale. I'm actually over 23 years old, and that's all you need to know."

Sherlock stood in silence for several moments. He'd never deduced someone more terribly (the incident with Molly wasn't too far behind, though). But, he mused. This woman didn't seem ordinary. He wondered if she had deduced him…

"I highly doubt the strength part, but other than that, I don't care how much I got wrong. Now," he crossed his arms. "Let's see how much you'll get incorrectly."

Her face became blank and she walked in circles as she told him.

"You're a sociopath, obviously. Hardly difficult to identify if you know how. You noticed the gang searching for me and decided to investigate, probably because you had nothing better to do. You have a brother, but you two don't get on. For that matter, you don't get along with any of your family. Your father is dead, he died when you were 20, and you don't have very many friends. You used to smoke, however, your flatmate is helping you to keep off the cigarettes, which I must say, is going very well, keep it up." She stopped to smile that smile again at him, before turning away and continuing.

"You are also most likely someone of significance in the media, judging by the fact that you haven't left your flat in… let's see… three days, twelve hours, thirteen seconds and counting. Of course, I don't know exactly who you are; I don't watch the news or read the paper, too boring, and your icy, arrogant demeanor suggests that you have few or no 'friends'. Personally, I couldn't care less about _emotions_. No, no, no, too boring, too mundane, not my area. Your friends are your flatmate, your landlady, and… goodness, that's quite amusing." She chuckled before moving on. "And a DI."  
Having finished, she stopped and crossed her arms, looking smug.

"Well? What did I get wrong?"

When Sherlock didn't respond, glaring at her, she smirked.

"Thought so."

"It takes one to know one," he said suddenly.

"Pardon?"

"You said I was a sociopath," he responded, now smirking himself. "But you see, it takes one to know one."

"Yes, I suppose it does."

A bolt of lightning split the darkening sky, and thunder crashed. Rain began to fall again, harder this time. Looking down the street towards 221B, the woman swore. Sherlock frowned. What could she possibly see that would cause her to resort to using expletives? Then, he saw them.

"Apparently they don't know when to quit," he observed.

The gang was back, only this time they had some unwelcome help. As in, a-gun-for-each-person help.

Had Sherlock not been who he was, he would have cursed as well. Here he was, outside in what was about to be a thunderstorm with probably the only person in the world who would ever match him in wits, cut off from his flat by thugs with (and he was sad to say) guns, which prevented even him from getting past them. And it was all because of boredom, he decided, not about to blame himself for getting into this mess. Even if from his perspective, it was a rather exciting mess.

As the gang came closer, one was brave (no, stupid) enough to come closer, ahead of the rest. His gaze fell on Sherlock.

"Oh! Who's your new boyfriend?" he taunted.

The young woman smiled as he came within 10 feet of them. Then, she promptly walked over to him and took the gun, throwing it as far away as she could.

"You loose. Bye-bye," she said, and, smirking all the while, picked him up and threw him back at his comrades, who were closer than they had been. He crashed into the 2 nearest thugs and all 3 went down.

While this may have seemed like the solution, it apparently wasn't. As she turned back to Sherlock, three bullets streaked past her legs and hit the road. The thugs were running toward them, aiming their guns, ready to shoot.

"That was a nice move, but probably not the best thing to have done."

She grimaced at the detective's remark.

"Yeah, I didn't think of that. Well, I did, but I ignored it."

She glanced behind her. A bullet flew past her head, so close that her hair moved.

"Run!" she called.

Instantly, both of them took off down the street. Sherlock could feel the adrenaline rushing through him, and judging by her shining eyes, he guessed that she could too.

"Stop sign, left turn or dead end, pedestrian crossing, traffic light, stop sign," she muttered, before taking a sharp right turn. "This way!"

"This probably isn't the time," she called as they ran. "But who are you?"

"I'll tell you my name if you tell me yours," he responded, noticing that she wasn't breathing hard, even at this pace.

"You can call me Evelynn."

"Not a name you hear every day."

They kept running. Evelynn didn't ask him about who he was again, waiting for him to tell her when he wanted to.

Eventually, they came to an alley, where she called for them to stop.

"You don't live here, do you?" he asked.

"No, of course not," she said. "But we lost the gang, so I see no need to keep running, though I wouldn't mind it."

She nodded and moved to leave, but stopped and turned her head to look at him again. He knew why.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes."

She nodded.

"Next time I'll shake your hand. That is, if I ever see you again, which I probably won't." She smiled, this time a genuine smile, and began to walk away.

"Catch… you… later…," he said as she left.

She called back to him in a singsong voice just before vanishing into the darkness of the alley.

"No, you won't!"

**And that's all for now! Review if you want! 'Till next time, readers!**

**~InsanityDeductions221B**


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